


painted across our skin, pressing against our lungs

by hey_its_lyn



Series: TimKon Week 2020 [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Fear gas, Kon-El | Conner Kent Feels, M/M, Mother Hen Cassie Sandsmark, Non-Graphic Violence, Paranoia, Protective Bart Allen, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tim Drake Angst, TimKon Week 2020, referenced/implied child neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24169375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hey_its_lyn/pseuds/hey_its_lyn
Summary: Tim Drake was born without a mark.Kon-El was never supposed to exist.Somehow, they're going to make it work.~Red thinks that when he finally leaves Gotham behind, he’ll be leaving all of its nonsense behind with it. Apparently, he’s wrong. When Scarecrow shows up in San Francisco, dousing Red Robin with fear gas and exposing his biggest secret, the Titans are left to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Conner Kent & Cassie Sandsmark, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Series: TimKon Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740391
Comments: 12
Kudos: 314





	painted across our skin, pressing against our lungs

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Loveless Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261912) by [Erica45](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erica45/pseuds/Erica45). 



> TimKon Week 2020: Soulmate AU / Hurt/Comfort

Red thinks that when he finally leaves Gotham behind him, he’ll be leaving all of its bullshit behind with it. Apparently, he’s wrong.

It’s been a good nine months since he makes his semi-permanent move to Titan’s Tower in San Francisco. So far, there’s only been normal superhero bullshit. A few metas causing trouble, some wannabe evil scientists trying to create the wrong kind of AI, an occasional alien here and there.

No insane clowns or sentient plants or annoying ultimatums decided by the flip of a coin.

And until today, no goddamn fear gas.

Red ducks and rolls, avoiding a barrage of exploding pellets. He remains in his compact crouch and allows the smoke to rise and dissipate. He’s in his domino, and for the first time in his life, he’s jealous of Red Hood’s stupid helmet, which automatically filters out any unknown gases. His rebreather is knocked from his grasp the second he draws it out of his utility belt, Scarecrow crackling at him from his place in the warehouse’s rafters, holding another weighted ball to hurl at Red’s face.

“Looky here,” Scarecrow sings, “It’s a little birdy! What are you doing so far from home?”

Red hits his emergency beacon. He learns his lesson about not calling for help when he needs it after coming back from his jaunt around the globe while Batman is missing. Knowing that the Titans will be on their way, he bares his teeth.

“Haven’t you heard? I’ve left the nest.”

Scarecrow cocks his head to the side. “I thought that was a pesky little rumor to hide the absence of an injured Red Robin. Heard you got kicked out of a window, after all.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Red says, rising to his feet. “The details always get muddled once everyone starts gossiping.”

Scarecrow hums. “I see, I see. Any reason for leaving the family?”

“None that concern you.”

Scarecrow tuts, jumping from the rafters and landing on the warehouse floor, standing across from Red’s crouching figure. Scowling, Red forces himself to his feet, even though the smoke hasn’t yet dissipated. He doesn’t know if the smoke from the explosions contain any of Scarecrow’s assortment of toxins. He still doesn’t want to risk breathing any in, but Scarecrow has drawn a farm hoe from his back and is inching towards him.

Red really hopes that his team will be there soon. He hates dealing with Scarecrow.

Red draws his bo staff, brandishing it in front of him as Scarecrow continues his advance. He shifts, sinking into a position that will make it easy for him to move quickly in any direction, his knees slightly bent, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Scarecrow mirrors his position with his hoe.

“I wonder,” Scarecrow says, “why your family has left you.”

Red snarls. “In case you missed it, I’m the one who left Gotham.”

“True. But why leave the place where you’ve grown up, Robin? Why leave your home?”

Red bares his teeth, a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but Scarecrow pushes forward once more, making a sympathetic noise in his throat.

“I think that you and the rest of the Bats are out of sorts. You were gone for a long time, you know. One day, there’s another new Robin on the streets and the old one has disappeared. But Batman didn’t go on another rampage. No rogues made any claims about killing another Robin. So what happened to you? Then, after a whole year missing Robin III, Red Robin appears in Gotham and is beaten up by the legendary Demon’s Head. You weren’t even home for six months before Red Robin took off for San Francisco and the Teen Titans. Now why would that be?”

He pointedly tries not to think about how Crane has so much information on him. He’ll puzzle it out later, but right now, he needs his focus centered on the rogue in front of him.

“Your inner psychologist is showing,” Red growls. “It’s not a good look on you, _Doctor_ _Crane_. You were fired from Gotham U, weren’t you? I can see why.”

Scarecrow shrieks and rushes forward, hoe pulled back in preparation to strike. Red dodges the blow, ducking to the side and swiping his bo under Scarecrow’s feet, knocking him to the ground. Scarecrow recovers quickly and surges upwards. Red cuts him off with a boot to the chest, pinning Scarecrow to the ground with his heel, jabbing his staff under his chin.

“You ready to go back to Arkham?” Red asks. “I’m sure you can’t wait to go _home_.”

Scarecrow merely laughs, the maniacal sound echoing off the walls of the warehouse, much more reminiscent of the Joker than Red finds comfortable. He pushes his staff further into Scarecrow’s trachea, unease swirling deep in his belly. Nothing concerning Gotham’s Rogues is ever this easy.

The sharp pinch to the back of Red’s knee—a weak spot in the armor that allows a wide range of movement—proves as much.

An icy lance of pain shoots up the back of his leg. Red’s gasp is strangled in his throat as he jerks backward, his staff falling away from Scarecrow’s throat. His boot is sliding off of the rogue’s chest, and Scarecrow surges forward, the momentum knocking Red back.

He barely manages to stay on his feet, stumbling until he finds his footing. By then, the pain has started to fade, but Red can feel his heart rate accelerating as sweat gathers along his forehead and in the palms beneath his gloves. He knows the beginning effects of fear toxin when he feels them.

The injection must have been a liquid form of fear gas, likely more potent than any of the previous variations based on how fast the side effects are setting in.

Shit. His team really needs to hurry up. Cassie and Bart are home for the weekend. It will take them at least forty-five minutes to get there, but Kon is at the Tower. Kon will be on his way.

Red has probably five to seven minutes before the side effects are enough to make him unable to fight. Likely only two to three minutes before they begin seriously impeding his thought process and response times. Maybe less. Red grits his teeth, fingers tightening around his staff. Scarecrow cackles.

“Tell me, little bird, what does it feel like to lose the only family you have? To be unlovable?”

Red gnashes his teeth, trying to control his breathing and spiking heart rate. He doesn’t bother responding. Instead, Red’s eyes dart across the warehouse, going over all of the potential escape routes he flags before entering the warehouse. Going up against Scarecrow while on an unknown variant of fear toxin is not a good idea, especially considering he has no idea when his team—when Kon—will arrive.

“Because I heard a rumor,” Scarecrow continues, uncaring, “that one of the robins was born without a mark.”

Red’s breath freezes in his lungs, heart lurching in his throat and choking him.

“It’s a funny thing,” Scarecrow says gleefully, “that Robin’s medical files just appeared on my computer one day. Someone named Talia thought I might find them interesting. Of course, only a few days later, you disappeared from Gotham and a new Robin took your place. A shame that your true name was redacted.”

Rage flares deep within Red’s belly. It’s not surprising, not really, but it still makes his blood boil bitterly beneath his skin. Of course Talia will do anything in her power to secure Damian’s position of power in the family. Tim has always been the biggest obstacle in Damian’s way; revealing his biggest secret—especially during the time when Scarecrow receives the information—will break him in ways not even Batman’s supposed death can.

At least she has the decency not to expose his identity. The only reason she doesn’t is likely because it will be all too easy to connect the dots to the rest of the Bat Family’s IDs, and she can’t risk revealing Damian to Gotham’s vicious underground.

“That wasn’t nice,” Red says through gritted teeth.

His breath is shaky, merely short gasps that leave him light-headed as his heartbeat races. His hands are trembling, vision swaying back and forth. He knows, logically, that he’s in no state to fight now. If Scarecrow comes at him, he’ll be too out of sorts to even defend himself, let alone fight back and apprehend one of Batman’s infamous rogues.

But when Scarecrow lunges at him, years of training have Red Robin lifting his bo staff to block the blow.

His arms shake under the strain. Red can feel the pull in his shoulders, the impact reverberating through his arms. His feet skid against the contact, only the tread of his boots keeping him from toppling backward.

Scarecrow’s laughter grates against his ears. There are shadows dancing through the shadows that surround him, the scream of bats loud in his ears, drowning out Scarecrow’s laughter. Red chokes on his next breath. His stumble leaves him open, and Scarecrow swoops in, swinging his hoe and knocking the staff out of Red’s hands. The steel clatters against the concrete floor.

Red doesn’t even notice the next strike, barely registers the pain of Scarecrow’s hoe dragging across his chest. Distantly, once he’s splayed across the floor, he realizes there’s no way that a mere farm hoe—or even one modified by the rogue—should have the capability to cut through the Kevlar of his uniform, let alone across the chest, the most padded area.

The fear toxin has almost taken full effect. He has a minute, tops, until he’s dragged completely under. He can’t tell yet if this strain will induce hallucinations or just regular paranoia that elevates his heart rate until he enters cardiac arrest.

Red’s focus is drawn out of his own head when his face is whipped to the side, cheek burning with the sting of a slap.

“I’m not ready for you to go under yet,” Scarecrow says. “I’m not done with you.”

Red snarls, snapping his teeth. Scarecrow’s fingers dig into his cheek as he pushes Red against the floor. The rogue holds him down, knee pressed against Red’s chest as his fingers scramble at the tear in Red’s suit. Red can’t do anything as Scarecrow rips the tear open further, and Red begins to thrash, not from the toxin, but from realization.

Scarecrow’s fingers ghost across the skin of his ribs. Red shudders at the touch, a shriek stuck in his throat as he tries to buck the man off of him, twisting and turning, his head cracking against the concrete in his attempt to get away. Stars explode behind his eyes, but Red ignores them as panic races through him.

Scarecrow’s laughing.

Red thinks that he hears himself screaming.

Or maybe he’s sobbing. He can’t be sure.

He can feel Scarecrow’s hand on his skin, on his mark. No one has ever seen his mark, no one has ever touched it.

But Scarecrow takes him down, infects him with a direct injection of fear toxin, breaches the safety of his uniform. He has access to his skin, his mark, the thing closest to his very heart and soul.

Red screams as the toxin sinks its claws completely into his psyche, pulling him under in a fit of screaming and thrashing and terror.

/\/\/\

As long as written records have existed, there is a portion of history dedicated to soul marks.

Everyone is born with a mark, and everyone has at least one match. Some have more than one match mates, but those are few and far between. Some relationships between matches are platonic, but the vast majority are romantic. Most meet their matches at some point in their life, but a select few are unlucky enough to never find theirs.

Timothy Drake is born without a mark.

He doesn’t understand the concept of matches until he is six years old, left alone as his parents travel the world. Mrs. Mac, the woman who looks after him, explains what the mark on the inside of her wrist means when he sees it while she’s helping him scrub the dirt from under his nails. When he asks why he doesn’t have one of his own, she smiles sadly and tells him that it’s past his bedtime.

Tim is a curious child, a precocious child. He hears his teacher tell the assistant principal and guidance counselor that she thinks he may be a genius. He’s supposed to take a series of tests before the school year ends.

But all this means is that Tim is smart enough to know when someone is lying to him. Even indirectly, a lie of omission is still a lie.

So Tim begins researching. He pours over the vast amounts of books and historical documents in his parent’s studies, pays an older student to check out books at the high school library where they won’t accept his elementary check out code.

Tim reads and studies and takes notes when he has trouble following along. (His teacher tells him that he’s doing something called annotating when she sees him skipping recess to pour over the current case study he’s working through. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask any questions or ask to see what he’s working on. His parents tell him to never let anyone know that he doesn’t have a mark, and he doesn’t want to lie.)

By the time Tim is eight, he hasn’t learned anything of value.

He finds that, overall, the topic of soulmates hasn’t been intensively studied. Until the late 1900s, researching anything about match mates or soulmates or whatever they’re being called at the time is a taboo. Marks are deeply personal. Studying them is considered an unforgivable invasion of privacy. Some think that looking into the marks is simply wrong; they believe that marks are divine in nature and are not to be trifled with. Only soulmates should see each other’s marks.

Fortunately, curiosity and modernization win out in the end, but there is still a frustrating lack of information.

Tim almost wants to give up. He’s a stubborn child, a certifiable genius based on the tests he took at the end of first grade. When he wants answers, he finds them.

But Tim is also a lonely child. He’s tired of looking for answers he may never find. He’s already alienated from his parents, who are barely home three months out of the year, and the one time they catch him reading a university research paper, they look pained and leave the room.

By the time he is nine, Tim has come to the conclusion that he is unlovable.

His parents can barely stand to be around him, spend more time abroad than they ever do at home. Mrs. Mac is kind, but she has her own family, and caring for Tim is literally in her job description. The students in his class are off-put by his intelligence and introverted nature. His teachers look at him like they can’t decide if he’s a puzzle to be solved or an extra burden in their bustling classrooms.

(The same year, Tim discovers that Dick Grayson, the only person to ever be genuinely kind to him, is Robin. He’s happy that one of them gets to have a family.)

Tim decides that unlovable doesn’t mean useless.

When Batman goes off the rails, Tim is there to pick up the pieces, even though he’s not exactly wanted. Batman accepts his presence with time, but Tim understands why he is sent home after every patrol. He may be Robin, but he is not a true disciple of the Bat.

He will never be a son like Dick Grayson or Jason Todd, and that’s okay.

Robin alone is more than he ever thought he deserved.

He works primarily on his own, finds his best training studying under the Lady Shiva. He is there when he is needed, but fades into the shadows the moment he is done. Dick Grayson says to call if he needs help, and Tim smiles a smile that might make even his mother proud.

Tim is unlovable, but he finds that he can be useful. Personas once endeared him to his mother, made it easier to pretend that she had a normal son, and they have yet to let him down.

He’s thirteen when his mother dies and his father ends up in a coma. He creates an uncle to take him in and lives in Bludhaven until Bruce figures out his lie. Tim is given a room at the manor, and there is a warmth in his chest that he thinks might be love.

(He tramps it down before he can get his hopes up.)

Tim is fourteen when he wakes to a terrible burning in the night. He shoots up in bed, a strangled scream stuck in his throat, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and what feels like lava being poured directly onto his skin.

Tim is fourteen when he wakes up to a soul mark across painted across his ribs, curling around his side and down to the small of his back.

/\/\/\

Kon is at the Tower when the alarm blares overhead.

He jerks up from where he is lying in bed, absently turning a small figurine between his fingers. The figurine falls to the wayside as the intercom installed throughout the Tower announces,

_“Code Bravo. Designation: Red Robin. Emergency beacon activated at…”_

Kon waits just long enough to memorize the address listed by the alarm system before he opens one of the special windows meant to allow the team’s fliers to make a quick exit. He jumps from the window, taking off in the direction of Red Robin’s beacon.

He tries to find Red’s heartbeat and is more than frustrated when he can’t. He pushes himself faster. Not being able to find his heartbeat means that Red’s heart is beating irregularly, which could mean a wide array of different things, most of them not good.

The beacon is on the other side of the city. Even with his speed, it will take at least three minutes to get there. Since he’s not able to track Red via his heartbeat and he doesn’t have the information transmitted from the tracker in Red’s beacon, it might take him longer to actually find him. If it’s serious enough to warrant Red actually asking for help, then he might be on the move.

Kon reaches the address listed, touching down on the roof of a warehouse on the docks. He may not be able to find Red’s heartbeat, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t recognize his screams. He would probably be able to hear them even without the super hearing.

His blood boils, and Kon doesn’t hesitate before punching his way through the roof and practically diving into the warehouse. What he sees make him shout in rage.

“Get off of him!”

Kon recognizes Scarecrow from his years of listening to Red bitch about the crazy-ass villains that are only found in Gotham. If the farm hoe isn’t telling enough, the creepy bag-mask is.

Scarecrow turns to look over his shoulder, but he doesn’t have a second to react before Kon is plowing into him, tackling him off of Red and slamming him against the floor of the warehouse. Red’s screams echo in his ears. Kon practically growls, slamming Scarecrow against the ground with just enough force to knock him out, even though he wants to do much worse.

The second the rogue goes limp, Kon whirls around to face his best friend. His breath is knocked from his lungs.

Red is splayed out on the warehouse floor, body tense and back arching as he screams himself hoarse. There’s a large rip in his uniform, cutting across his chest, torn along his side to enlarge the tear and display his ribs. The relief at the lack of blood only lasts a moment.

Showcased by the tear in the suit is a cluster of intertwined red and orange lines, looking almost like flames that lick at Red’s skin, curling around his ribs and disappearing beneath his uniform.

Kon’s heart is stuck in his throat, and despite the screams that are filling the warehouse, he can only stare at Tim’s soul mark. His hands are suddenly clammy, the pounding in his chest making it hard to breathe.

Is this why Scarecrow came all the way to San Francisco from Gotham? To see Red’s mark? Or is it an accident that the tear in the suit just happens to be where Red’s mark is? People target the ribs all the time.

That’s what it has to be—it’s just a coincidence that a rogue appears in the same city where one of Gotham’s vigilantes has settled, cuts through his Kevlar suit, and sees exactly where Red’s mark is tattooed across his skin.

The same mark that Kon has crawling down his spine.

The revelation is cut off when Red thrashes on the ground, screams breaking as they leave his throat.

Kon shoves down the emotions building in his throat. He immediately reaches for Red’s utility belt, carefully disabling the catch to the compartment that holds the antidotes to all of the different Gothamite toxins. (There’s far too many for comfort. Red shows him and Bart how to access them in case of emergency when they are still in Young Justice. He thinks he will never have to use them after Red makes San Francisco his semi-permanent residence. Apparently, he’s wrong.)

He fumbles as he pulls out the vial holding the antidote to fear gas. Red should have been able to grab the antidote himself, but Scarecrow must have used a stronger strain and not given Red a chance to fight back.

Kon bites the inside of his cheek, quickly prepping the syringe. He has to pin Red down, the other boy thrashing and moving too much for Kon to find a vein. Red is slippery, though, and it takes Kon sitting on his torso and pinning Red’s arms to his sides to get him to be some semblance of still. His legs are kicking out, but Kon presses an arm against Red’s chest, holding him down long enough to slide the syringe into Red’s neck.

Once the antidote is administered, Kon tosses the syringe away, making a note to send Cassie or Bart to pick it up later when they survey the scene to make sure nothing is missed. Both of them are at home this weekend, though Kon is sure that they’re on their way to the Tower the second they receive the emergency alert.

It takes nearly two minutes for the antidote to begin to work, and Kon still has to hold Red down as he twists and turns, screams quieting to whimpers. Kon finds the whimpers are almost worse. Red is never scared, never stays done long, even when he should. Red is more of a fighter than any of them, never lets anyone think that he is weak. Kon knows he will hate anyone seeing him like this.

When the whimpering and squirming doesn’t stop, concern rushes through him. The antidote should be working by now.

Kon grits his teeth and scoops Red into his arms, careful not to jostle him and using his TTK to keep him stable. He bends his knees and pushes up, shooting into the sky and leaving the warehouse through the hole he made in the ceiling.

The spring air is cool, the breeze from the Pacific making Red shiver in his arms. Kon holds him tighter and increases his speed as much as he dares. He can feel Red trembling in his arms, see his lips moving, though the noise is drowned out by the wind.

He can see the Tower in the distance, and it only takes a moment for him to make it inside and into the med bay. He carefully lays Red down on a gurney, slowly slipping his arms from beneath his knees and shoulders so he doesn’t disturb him further.

Kon is trained in first aid like all of the Titans. He knows how to stabilize injuries in the field to keep someone alive until a proper medic can arrive.

He doesn’t know how to deal with toxins and poisons, let alone ones that come out of Gotham. Only the Bats can handle the shit that Gotham throws at them.

He feels useless. Kon smooths a hand through Red’s hair as he reaches for the spray to dissolve the adhesive that keeps the domino on Red’s face. Red has stilled, only occasional twitches and soft whimpers showing that he’s even somewhat aware at all. Kon gently pulls the domino away from Tim’s face and tosses it away. Tim’s eyes are scrunched shut, and Kon swallows thickly as he pulls back.

There are no words that can convey how thankful he is that Bart rushes into the med bay seconds later.

“What happened?”

Bart is dressed in civvies, his shoes smoking and his hair a wild mess. For once, his chest is heaving as he pants, sucking in large gulps of air.

“Fear gas,” Kon says. “Scarecrow decided to visit from Gotham.”

Bart scowls. “Bastard.”

Kon goes to reply but is interrupted by a knocking at the window. He and Bart turn around, finding Cassie hovering outside. Bart rushes over and pushes the window open. Cassie sticks her head inside but doesn’t pull herself through the window.

“I went to the warehouse.” Her eyes are burning, absolutely furious. “What the hell were you thinking just leaving Scarecrow laying there?”

Kon blinks. He honestly stops thinking about the rogue the second he sees the state Tim is in. Cassie must still be able to read him like an open book because she sighs, features softening slightly.

“You were lucky. He was still unconscious when I got there, so I tied him up and dropped him off with the local S.W.A.T. team before I cleaned up the warehouse. Batman’s already been called to supervise his transport to Arkham.”

“Great,” Bart huffs. “A bat invasion.”

Cassie shoots him a sharp look. “He’ll only be here long enough to see Scarecrow out of the city. He won’t have time to drop by and visit.”

“Bastard.”

Cassie shrugs, finally crawling through the window. “Tim’s okay with the distance for the time being. Everything in Gotham is still tense—he doesn’t need Batman seeing him laid up with fear gas in his system.”

The three of them make their way back over to Tim’s gurney, and Cassie winces when she sees him. They all pointedly avoid looking at the brightly colored mark peeking through the tear in his costume.

“You administered an antidote, right?”

Kon glares at her. “It’s the first thing I did after knocking Scarecrow out.”

“The dose must be stronger than normal,” Bart says, frowning. “Tim showed me how to work the lab equipment. If I can get a sample of the antidote, I can get the system to synthesize a stronger version of it.”

“There’s more in his utility belt.”

Bart hums, moving forward and slowly reaching for Tim’s utility belt. As soon as his fingers brush against the antidote compartment, Tim flinches away, eyes snapping open as he snarls. He tries to push himself off the gurney and scramble backward, but his legs crumple beneath him the moment his feet touch the ground.

Kon is there in a second. He crouches down, holding his hands up and speaking softly. “Hey, Tim, man, it’s just us. It’s just the Titans.”

Tim tenses, his hands curling into fists. Slowly, realization begins to trickle across his features. He seems conflicted, eyes darting across each of their faces and marking all of the exits.

“Kon?” His voice is hoarse and shaky, breaking from the strain of his screams as he curls into himself.

Kon gives him a small smile, trying to mask his nerves. “Yeah, man, it’s me. We’re in the Tower. Scarecrow’s on his way back to the looney bin. You’re safe.”

Tim nods hesitantly. “Fear toxin,” he mumbles, as though he’s trying to convince himself that he’s been drugged.

Kon drops his hands, keeping them in front of his lap so they’re directly in Tim’s line of sight. “Yeah. I gave you the antidote already, but you’re still feeling the effects.

Tim frowns, “Injected in the back of my leg. It was stronger than the gas.”

“That’s what we thought. Bart’s going to try and get you a stronger dose, but he needs to get in your belt, okay?”

Tim immediately reaches for his utility belt, fingers clutching it tightly. The panicked look returns, his eyes darting back to the exits. Kon bites down a curse.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes. “All he needs is the backup antidote. How about you give it to me and keep your belt? Does that sound good?”

Tim blinks owlishly at him before his eyes narrow. He latches onto Kon’s face, almost as though he’s inspecting him, taking him apart piece by piece. Very slowly, he reaches into his belt, nimbly pulling out a vial of the antidote despite the trembling of his hands. He holds the vial out to Kon, yanking his hands back the moment Kon has taken it.

“Thank you, Tim.”

“The antidote you administered has settled has in my system. It’s taken away the worst of the effects.” Tim ignores Kon, his eyes only leaving the floor when he sees Bart’s shoes. He looks up as Kon deposits the vial in Bart’s open palm, the speedster disappearing a second later. “The hallucinations are gone. I’m still experiencing increased paranoia and anxiety.”

“You’re compartmentalizing.”

Tim shrugs. “It will help keep me calm until Bart’s finished. My heart rate is already slowing.”

“Alright,” Kon says. He squashes his frown by pressing his lips together in a thin line. “Let’s get you back onto the gurney, okay? That way we can check you over.”

“I have some bruising and a concussion.”

“Then let us double-check for the sake of our sanity.”

“… I hate it when you do that.”

Kon’s smile is genuine. “I know. Do you need a hand?”

Tim frowns, slowly rising into a crouch. He scowls when he nearly tips over. He nods at Kon, who reaches out without a word, slipping an arm around Tim’s waist and lifting him up. He helps Tim hobble back to the gurney, holding most of his weight, even though he lets Tim walk by himself. Once Tim’s seated on the gurney, Cassie moves forward from where she’s waiting, watching everything from out of sight, in the corner.

“Thanks for hitting your beacon this time,” she says.

“I’ve learned my lesson.” When she levels him with a flat look, he glances away. “I’ve mostly learned my lesson and am working on communicating with the team.”

Cassie smiles. “There you go. In case you didn’t hear, Scarecrow’s in custody and the warehouse has been cleaned up.”

“Thanks,” Tim says.

“Anytime.”

As Bart works at the nearby computer, Kon and Cassie glance at each other before, wordlessly debating how to proceed. Kon sighs when Cassie’s shoulders straighten, nudging him with her hip as she plants herself in front of Tim.

“Hey, Tim. Do you mind if we take off the top of the suit so we can check for that bruising?”

Tim immediately jerks backward. “No!”

Cassie steps back without thinking, hands raising in a placating manner. “Okay, okay. But you could have some bruising on your spine, and that could be dangerous. We just need to check.”

“Absolutely not,” Tim says, frantically shaking his head. His heart rate is rising, his entire body beginning to shake.

“Tim—"

“I don’t have on a patch,” Tim says, his voice rising, nearly a shout. Suddenly, his eyes widen, and when he looks down, a terrible whine rises in his throat upon seeing the tear in his uniform—seeing the bright, intricate curls of his mark. “Oh, shit. God, shit.”

Cassie swears. “Hey, Tim, it’s okay. We haven’t looked at it. It’s okay, we only saw a little bit.”

Tim’s shaking, his breaths short and fast. His eyes dart to the side, and Cassie barely has time to react before he’s lunging for the door.

“Tim, wait!”

Tim twists out of her grip before her hand can fully close around his wrist. He ducks around her, making a mad dash for the door. Bart’s shouting from at the computer, Kon’s rushing him from behind. Tim’s got the door halfway open before an arm wraps around his waist, pulling him back and trapping him against a solid chest.

“Let me go!”

Kon struggles to hold onto the writhing Tim, tightening his arms as he hauls him back into the med bay. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low and soft, quiet enough that only Tim can hear.

“Tim, you need to calm down. You’re safe, you’re fine. The mark doesn’t—”

Tim shrieks, trying to kick at Kon’s legs. Kon grits his teeth and holds on.

“Tim, please—”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish as Tim throws his head back, clipping Kon in the jaw. It doesn’t hurt, it probably feels worse for Tim than it does for Kon, but it surprises him enough for his grip to slacken, and Tim slips out from beneath the arm.

He doesn’t have time to make a break for the door a second time before Bart appears in front of him, sticking a needle in Tim’s neck and depressing the plunger. Tim snarls, eyes drooping as he sags forward. He pushes weakly as Bart supports him, gently lowering him to the ground. He’s out before they’re even on the floor.

Bart scowls at Cassie and Kon as he pulls Tim into his arms, pushing past the other two to lay Tim back down on the gurney. He straps down Tim’s wrists, gives his shoulder a gentle pat, and whirls around to glare at his teammates. He points a threatening finger at Kon.

“You owe me a new pair of sneakers,” he hisses. “The soles are literally burned through. And you,” he turns to Cassie, “should know better than to ask him to expose his mark. You know that he never accepts medical treatment unless it’s covered with a patch. And while he’s on fear toxin! Jesus fuck, you two need a refresher in ‘making sure Tim doesn’t die or have a mental breakdown.’ Honestly, do I need to make a damn PowerPoint?”

Cassie glares at him. “What, I should trust drugged, paranoid, concussed Tim to tell the truth about his injuries?”

Bart throws up his hands. “Kon literally has x-ray vision, Cassie! He would know if something was seriously wrong!”

Kon remains silent, hands curling and uncurling to form tight fists, his nails digging into his palms. He glances around Bart to look at Tim. Sedated, he looks like he’s merely sleeping. His wrists are strapped to the table, his hair wild and tangled, and dark bags beneath his eyes. But his face is slack, body lax on the gurney. For the first time in a long time, the tension is gone from his shoulders.

He still looks like a total mess.

Emotion rising in his throat, Kon turns tail and flees.

/\/\/\

Cassie finds him several hours later, hidden away in his room. The small figurine is clutched tightly in his hand, wet hair dripping down his neck and soaking the collar of his shirt. He’s tucked himself in the corner where his bed rests against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. The room is dark, the light from the sunrise hidden by the blackout curtains all of the rooms in the Tower have.

Cassie is quiet when she nudges the door shut behind her, carefully making her way across the room and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What happened in the warehouse, Kon?”

Kon doesn’t answer, eyes trained on the figurine being twisted between his fingers. Cassie sighs. She sits in silence with him for a few more minutes, inching closer when he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“Kon, you have to open up sometime. We’ve all learned the hard way what happens when you internalize.” She gives him another minutes, then pushes forward. “Is this about Tim’s mark?”

Kon’s flinch is all the answer she needs. Cassie sets a gentle hand on his knee. His eyes remain on the figurine, his fingers tightening around it, hiding it in his fist.

“Kon, you know how Tim is about his mark. I know seeing him panic like that—”

“It’s not that,” Kon says.

Cassie says nothing, gives Kon time to take a deep breath and center himself. She can hear the thickness of his voice, a sign that he’s been shoving everything down and doing all that he can to keep it all tucked away.

“I have his mark.”

Cassie freezes. Something tight clenches deep in her belly, and she swallows thickly when her throat feels like it’s closing up. Whatever she thinks has Kon so upset, his is definitely not what she’s expecting.

“I have his mark,” Kon says again, voice breaking. “Cassie, I…” His head falls to rest between his knees. “He… he hates his mark. I can’t… Cassie, I just _can’t_ …”

His words cut off as he sucks in a deep breath. Cassie takes a slow breath herself, leaning forward and pulling Kon into a hug.

“You big idiot,” she whispers into Kon’s hair. She rubs a hand up and down his back, giving him a moment to catch his breath. When she feels the tears dampen the front of her shirt, she doesn’t say anything. “Tim doesn’t hate his mark, Kon.”

“But he never shows it. Never lets anyone see it, never talks about. It’s like he doesn’t even acknowledge it. And… And I get it. Kind of. I mean… Cassie, I wasn’t supposed to have a mark, and I fucked over Tim in the process.”

Cassie holds him tighter. “No, Kon, absolutely not. You haven’t fucked over Tim. He’s your best friend. He loves you.”

Kon sobs into her chest, his breath shaky in his lungs. His shoulders cave in, and he gives into Cassie’s comforting hold.

“I’m an abomination,” he says. “Even before Clark named me, I was something worse than a clone. I—”

“Kon, stop—”

“I wasn’t supposed to have a mark, Cassie. All of the other experiments, all the failed attempts, not one of them had a mark. I wasn’t supposed to have a mark, but I do, and now Tim is tied to an abomination like me—”

“Kon, _shut up_!”

Kon startles in her hold, unable to react when she pushes him away from her, hands holding firmly to his shoulders as she stares him down. She catches his eye and makes sure that she keeps it.

“First of all, your mark does not define you. Some people meet their soulmates and never have a relationship with them, platonic or romantic. If Tim really didn’t want to know you, a mark isn’t going to tie him down if he doesn’t want it to. You’re his best friend, and I’m guessing he doesn’t know that you guys are a match.”

Kon’s silence is, once again, the only confirmation she needs.

“You idiot,” Cassie repeats fondly. “If anything, your mark makes you more human. The others didn’t have a mark because they never left CADMUS. But you, Kon, escaped and made a life for yourself. You have what they never did. Your mark doesn’t define you, but maybe you have it for a reason. Do you know why Tim is so skittish about soulmates? Have you ever asked how he feels?”

Kon shakes his head.

“Then you can’t jump to conclusions. Tim has his reasons, just like everyone else. You need to talk to him. Hiding in here isn’t going to help either of you. Tim’s hurting too. He feels exposed, and c’mon, he’s _Tim_. We all saw him drugged up on fear gas. He’s embarrassed and scared because we saw him with his defenses down. When the second antidote set in, he had freak out of his own.” She gives him a hard look. “He asked where you were and if you were okay. He was worried he hurt you.”

Kon’s head falls, the figurine dangling limp from his fingers. It’s a miniature version of Tim’s Robin, something he picked up his first time in Gotham. Its paint is worn, but the little thing has always been something of a comfort to him. Like a stress ball that he turns through his fingers.

“God, I’m an idiot.”

Cassie nudges him somewhat playfully. “A little bit,” she says. “But so is Tim. No one on this team communicates like we should. We all bundle things up and don’t talk about it until it’s too late. It’s what we’ve been working on. We’re all idiots.”

Kon laughs, the sound hitching in his chest. “Yeah, we do that, don’t we?”

“Truly, a bad habit.”

“I vote we blame the JLA. They taught us how to punch things and save civilians. Not much room for healthy communication in that curriculum, huh?”

“I like to think that we’re at least better than the Bats.”

“It’s pretty damn hard to be less talkative than a Bat, Cassie. They’re the _Bats_.”

Cassie laughs too, shaking her head with a faint smile. She squeezes Kon’s shoulders before pulling back, sliding off the bed and making her way over to the door.

“Just talk to him, Kon,” she says.

“I will.”

Cassie nods once and slips out of the room. Kon scoffs when she purposefully leaves the door partially open. It’s a suggestion he probably shouldn’t ignore.

Kon looks back to the figurine in his hand, feeling the grooves of the cape and the scuffed paint on the boots. He clutches it tightly before setting it on his nightstand. He forces himself to his feet, doesn’t bother changing out of his damp shirt or bothering with socks or shoes. Kon takes a deep breath, abandoning his bed—his safe little corner where he tucks himself away whenever he needs a second just to _breathe_ —and following Cassie into the hall.

The lights are dim, just bright enough for him to find his way out to the elevator without having to look too closely. The steel is cold beneath his toes as the elevator doors slide closed behind him, and Kon uses it to ground himself. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath. The elevator quickly slides to a stop, humming as it arrives on the appropriate floor.

He slowly makes his way towards the double doors of the med bay, forcing himself to put on foot after the other until he’s standing in front of the doors, able to peer in the small glass windows. The lights are dimmed, and Kon thinks that he should just walk away. He should let Tim sleep and talk to him later, once they’ve both had time to cool down.

But then he remembers the terrified look in his eyes, the screams that echoed off of the warehouse walls, Scarecrow’s fingers running along his ribs, his mark, _their_ mark. He can check on him. Kon can just slide in, make sure that Tim is sleeping, safe and sound, and then head back to the safety of his corner.

Kon quietly pushes open the doors of the med bay, walking silently over to the gurney where Tim was laying earlier. He hopes that Tim’s tired enough from the toxin and the sedatives that he doesn’t wake up. Bat training is wicked, and almost no one in the tower can get the drop on him unless he’s exhausted.

The train of thought screeches to a halt because Tim’s not on the gurney.

The med bay is empty.

Kon allows himself three seconds of panic before he does the logical thing and reaches out to find Tim’s heartbeat. It’s several floors beneath his feet, probably tucked away in his bedroom.

Logically, Kon knows that Tim is sleeping off the effects of the drugs in his system. Fear gas is a nasty thing, and it drains everyone’s energy until there’s nothing left but complete and utter exhaustion. The fact that the liquid was injected directly into Tim’s bloodstream, paired with the sedatives and two doses of the antidote, Tim is probably wiped out.

Logically, Kon knows that he should go back to his room and wait to have this conversation until they’re both rested and clear-headed.

But Kon instead turns on his heel and darts down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time until he reaches the floor where Tim has his bedroom. He creeps through the halls, this floor much more open-concept than his own, until he appears at Tim’s door.

Now that he’s here, he hesitates. Pulling his lip between his teeth, Kon is ready to turn his ass around and go back to his room like a good person when Tim calls out.

“I know you’re there. I have sensors on all of the entrances to the floor, Kon, you know that.”

Kon admittedly forgot about that. He steels himself and opens the door.

Tim’s room is an organized mess, the overhead lights off but the lamp on his desk emitting a gentle, yellow light that spreads across the room. Tim is sitting up in his bed, blankets around his waist, dark bags under his eyes and an unusual slump of his shoulders.

Kon swallows and shuts the door behind him.

“You okay?”

Kon barks out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I should be asking you that.”

Tim shrugs. “Been through it before, will probably have to go through it again. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck, but I know how to cope.”

“You can’t always compartmentalize all of your problems in neat little boxes, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Tim bites out, glaring. “I’m working on it.”

Kon sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

“I meant you can talk to us about it, if you want.” At Tim’s dubious look, Kon frowns. “I mean it, Tim. We’re here for you. We’ve all been through some nasty shit. If you need to talk it out, we’re going to be here to listen.”

“Trust me,” Tim says, “you don’t want to hear it.”

“Bullshit.”

Tim blinks in surprise. Kon takes a step forward.

“We don’t give a shit how nasty it is, Tim. We want to help you. I want to help you, okay.”

Tim sags back against his wall, the fight leaving him. His voice is pained as he asks, “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my best friend. I love you, dumbass.”

Tim scoffs. “No, Kon, you really don’t.”

Glaring, Kon stomps forward until he’s standing at the foot of Tim’s bed, arms folded across his chest as anger boils hotly under his skin. “Yeah, Tim, I really do. You and Bart were my first friends, okay? The first people to give a damn about me. You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

“Just stop, okay? _Please_ stop.”

“No,” Kon hisses. “How many times do I have to say it? I care about you.”

“Kon, you don’t know—”

Kon doesn’t give him a chance to finish speaking. “I don’t give a shit. Whatever it is that makes you think that we don’t care about you—”

“I’m unlovable, okay?!” Tim’s shout echoes off of the walls, and Kon stares at him in utter shock and horror. Tim glares at him, eyes wet and chest heaving as he says, “No one has ever loved me, and I get it, okay? I do. I figured it out before I even took the stupid fucking cape. My parents, Bruce, Dick… Just, look, okay? You don’t have to sugar coat it. Just leave it be.”

Kon is stunned into silence, gaping at Tim with a slack jaw. It takes him several seconds to digest everything Tim just said, and once he does, he actually growls low in his throat.

“Bull-fucking-shit,” he hisses. “I don’t know who the fuck planted that idea in your head, but I swear to God—”

“No one planted the idea, Kon. It’s just the way it is.”

“The hell it is!”

“I was born markless!” Tim shouts. “I was born without a goddamn mark, and my parents couldn’t stand to even look at me. Bruce took me on as Robin because I forced him too, and I was never really his son. Not like Dick or Jason, and sure as hell not like Damian. Then Dick gives away my cape, and look, I was there to be useful, and once that usefulness is up, it’s time for me to move on. _That’s just the way it is_.”

Kon barely thinks about it as he rips his shirt over his head and turns around, baring his back in the dim light of Tim’s room. He hears Tim’s choked gasp and turns back to face his best friend, meeting his eyes with a glare. Tim’s eyes are full of unshed, angry tears, and Kon feels a swell of emotions he can’t describe rise up from the pit of his stomach.

“And I was born to be an abomination,” Kon says, tired and strained and utterly exhausted. “I was the only project at CADMUS to have a mark. You were born markless? Well, you have one now, don’t you?”

Tim can only stare at him, mouth agape and eyes wide. Kon meets his gaze steadily, even though he feels as if he’s crumbling under the tension that fills the room. They’re silent, thoughts buzzing through their minds at a pace that they can barely follow.

Tim cradles his head in his hands and sucks in a harsh breath. Kon feels the anger drain out of him, replaced with something cold and unpleasant. He’s preparing himself to leave, to return to his corner and his figurine to attempt to make sense of the mess that surrounds him, when Tim looks up, eyes red and puffy.

“I… I’m sorry, Kon, I…”

The breath he takes rattles his entire chest, and Kon doesn’t think before he’s swooping forward onto the bed, pulling Tim into his arms. He wraps himself around Tim, pulling him into his chest and covering his head with Kon’s own, feeling his warmth and realizing once again how lean he is in comparison to Kon. Underneath the oversized sweatshirt, he’s packing pounds of wiry muscle, but he still sinks into Kon’s hold, easily enveloped by the hug. Tim’s shaking in his arms, choked, uneven breaths hot against his neck as Tim buries his face in Kon’s shoulder, fingers gripping the fabric of his t-shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Kon whispers into Tim’s hair.

“What for?” Tim mumbles against his skin.

Kon’s arms tighten around him, and he allows himself to lean into Tim’s touch, his arms wrapped around Kon’s middle.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “For not realizing how fucked up this entire situation is?”

“No one realized,” Tim says. “Not your fault I didn’t figure out the obvious.”

“It wasn’t that obvious.”

Tim tries to pull back, but Kon knows he’s only going to glare at him, so he keeps Tim wrapped up tightly in his hug and held close to his chest. Tim fights for a moment before giving up and sinking back into Kon’s tight hold.

“My mark showed up around the same time you were created. It’s shouldn’t have been hard to put the pieces together.”

Kon sighs into his hair. “Tim, you never even thought about. You can’t put the pieces together when you didn’t think about my creation and our mark in the same context.”

Tim is silent, his grip loosening before suddenly coming back stronger than before. Kon feels a flash of worry. He pulls back just enough to try and see Tim’s face. He can’t, as Tim has buried his face into Kon’s chest, holding onto him for dear life.

“What?” he asks. “Tim, are you okay? What…?”

Tim pulls away enough to meet Kon’s concerned gaze. “Nothing, it’s stupid. It’s just… You called it _our_ mark.”

Kon blinks down at him. “Well that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Tim laughs wetly. “I never thought I’d hear something like that.”

Kon leans his forehead against the crown of Tim’s head, breathing in the smell of his shampoo. “Me either.”

Tim falls back into his chest, Kon practically nuzzling into his hair, breathing in his scent, feeling his warmth, taking in everything that is Tim.

Tim’s voice is muffled by his chest. “We should really talk about this more when we’re actually fully awake and, you know...”

“Not recovering from a bunch of drugs?”

“Yeah, that.”

Kon nods, Tim’s hair tickling his nose as he does. “Yeah, we should. I wasn’t going to come here, but… I just wanted to see that you were okay.”

“Thanks,” Tim says. He hesitates for a moment, pressing closer to Kon’s chest. “You can stay here tonight, if you want.”

Kon gapes at him in surprise. Tim must know what he’s doing because he laughs, light in a way that Kon hasn’t heard since before this whole mess began.

“C’mon, Kon. You’ve stayed the night before. We’re both cuddlers, admit it. And I always get cold.”

“So that’s what I am to you, huh? Your personal heater?”

Kon can feel Tim’s smile. “Yeah, something like that. So, what do you say?”

Kon grins, that feeling welling up in his chest once more. It’s still heavy and confusing, but it feels better now. Less panicked, less terrified. He’s still nervous, still scared, but the feelings are mixed with something else now too.

He feels hopeful for the first time in a long time.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of unhappy with this, honestly. I feel like it's too similar to Day 3, and it falters during the transitions and at the end. Whelp. 
> 
> Also, apparently I am allergic to established relationships or confirming said relationships at some point during the story ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thanks for reading anyway! Means a lot ❤️


End file.
